The Island of Whispers (18 page)

Their ears
pricked, their muzzles close to the ground, they began their ascent
of the hillside.

–
o –

–
Chapter Forty –

It was the day
after the Big Day; another bright, fresh autumn morning. The usual
lines of early Monday morning southbound traffic had begun to
stream over the road bridge. After the disruption of yesterday’s
celebrations, traffic was also moving again in North and South
Queensferry. Up on the rail bridge, the focus of those
celebrations, train services had resumed, and the maintenance men
had begun their first walk-through of the day. Life on the estuary
was back to normal.

Down below the
rail bridge, the two young men from the exhibition company had just
stepped out of their dinghy on to Inchgarvie’s jetty. As on their
first visit to the island, both were wearing bright orange
lifesaving jackets on top of shiny yellow anoraks. Unlike on that
first visit, however, when the spectre of the rats had driven them
away, both were looking very confident and very pleased with
themselves. They were pleased because their fireworks display not
only had worked, but had been widely acclaimed. And they were
particularly pleased because this would be their final visit; once
they were finished up here this morning, they could move on to
their next big project.

They headed
direct for the crest of the island, one carrying a plastic box and
the other an empty satchel. When they reached the display platform,
the former knelt down, opened the box and took out a large drill,
to which he proceeded to fix a screwdriver bit. The latter began to
search around the platform, picking up spent fireworks and other
debris, which he dropped into the satchel. Once the platform was
dismantled, the aluminium tubes making up its frame would also go
into the satchel. The young men were determined to comply with the
terms of their contract by leaving the place exactly as they had
found it.

One of them
began to whistle cheerfully. The other joined in. They were still
whistling when the drill whined into action.

Long Snout was
pacing the ground in front of his nest. He was still tired, not
having slept for as long as he had wanted. Some of the oafs from
the Protectors’ lair had interrupted his sleep to inform him that
Broken Tail had died. He had given them short shrift, of course. He
had told them to be gone, to drag Broken Tail’s corpse into the
Scavengers’ lair, as was the usual custom. Then he had tried to
sleep again. But it had been impossible: there had been too much to
think about it. And to add to all of his problems, now there was
the question of the appointment of a new Chief Protector.

Still, he acknowledged, the rude awakening had given him more
time to work out the details of the new society and the new regime
that that society would be required to follow in order for it to
survive. Dissent among the Watchers: that’s what had been at the
root of the insurrection by the slaves. The dissent had been rife;
even old Sharp Claws had been in on it, it seemed. The Watchers
felt that they were a lesser part of the society, treated less well
than the Protectors and Hunters. Well, they were all gone now. All,
that is, except for the traitors up there somewhere – and he had
ensured that
their
so-called freedom would be short-lived, if it was not already
over. The Watchers had been a bunch of misfits, anyway. They hadn’t
been real warriors like the rest of the Outer Circle. The new
society would have no need for them. The Hunters would take on the
Watchers’ role; they would watch over the world above, as well as
hunt for the white birds. And the Hunters’ lair would be increased
so that it was the same size as the Protectors’ lair. Equality
achieved. No dissent. But the Protectors would need to be rebuked
and reminded about their responsibilities. After all, it was
because of their complacency that the Scavengers had succeeded in
breaking free from their dungeon to run riot in the underworld.
From now on, many more Protectors would be assigned to guard the
entrance to the dungeon, the tunnel from the Common lair to the
outside world and the sacred tunnel. Yes, under the new regime, the
Protectors would be kept busier – and more vigilant.

And then, of
course, there were the Rulers to consider. Long Snout paused to
survey the other nests around him. The Rulers were much fewer since
the slaves’ revolt. White Muzzle, the King-rat, had perished in the
massacre, as had his older son, Red Coat. But Fire Eyes, his
younger son, had survived. There he was: the princeling, the heir
apparent, sleeping soundly, without a care, waiting to be announced
as the new King-rat. But that was not going to happen. Yes, it was
correct that the brown ones should still hold a higher place in the
society, and that they should have others to fight and hunt and
watch for them. But it was no longer acceptable for royalty to be
hereditary, for kings and princes to be made simply because of
their bloodline. In the past, it had always been the strongest and
fiercest of the lair who had claimed the kingdom. Well, Long Snout
was the strongest and fiercest, and he would make that claim!

Before
resuming his pacing, he gave Fire Eyes’ sleeping form a long, cold
look of contempt. As soon as the cripple was back here, he would
call the Assembly. There, in front of them all, he would kill Fire
Eyes, declare himself as their new King-rat and announce the
details of the new regime. Then they could watch the cripple
suffer. He would reinforce his authority by inflicting the pain
himself. First, though, he would send for One Eye. He wanted him to
send the Hunters up when darkness came; white birds were needed for
the Assembly, a great feast of them to celebrate the new epoch. He
would also post guards outside of the sacred tunnel to watch for
the return of Jagged Fangs and Neck-Snapper. Like sensible
warriors, they were probably waiting until the light had gone
before venturing back. Which reminded him about the matter of a new
Chief Protector: Jagged Fangs appeared to be the most obvious
choice; he was ...

Long Snout
stopped abruptly and looked up at the roof of the lair. The muffled
whining sounds from above indicated the presence of Two-Legs –
again! Ill-tempered, cursing, he rushed into the Protectors’
lair.

‘
You and you!’ he ordered the first two Protectors in his path.
‘Go to the outside world! Find out what the Two-Legs are up to now!
Report back to me!’

It was only
after he had returned to the Inner Circle lair that he suddenly
realised his mistake. The two burly guards were just a couple of
simple dung-heads. They wouldn’t know how to conceal themselves
among the rocks, not like the Hunters or even those wretched
Watchers. They would go charging out into the open. But it was too
late now; they had gone. Long Snout cursed again.

The little
plum-coloured boat bobbed gently on the flat pool of water under
the bridge’s central arch. The boat had been shadowing the
maintenance men as they made their slow progress northwards high
above. It lay at anchor now, its skipper, Charlie McNulty, having
decided that he needed a break. Charlie was outside of the cabin,
standing aft, getting some air and nursing another hangover.
Naturally, with all of those people about and all of those
celebrations going on, it had been another boozy night in the old
town. He had had a good time, but he was regretting it this
morning.

Charlie lit a
cigarette and looked across to Inchgarvie. He spotted the
lime-green dinghy first and then the two whiz-kids clambering into
it. Looking like a couple of parrots again, he sneered. He noticed
that both of them were grinning broadly.

‘
Pair of smug-faced, little –’ he began, but his words trailed
off when he caught sight of the two rats. They were in plain view,
almost nonchalantly climbing down from the top of the island and
heading for the monastery. And both of them were as big as the one
he had killed, the one that had begun to stink out the
cabin.

‘
That’s it!’ he said out loud.

He was more
determined than ever now; he would find the rat-catcher that
evening.

–
o –

–
Chapter Forty-One –

They had
travelled round the edge of the quarry and down the other side of
the hill, where there was a small cove with a sandy beach which
sloped down to the sea. They had crossed over the beach, the sand
under their feet feeling uncomfortably soft and yielding. On the
other side of the cove, they had climbed another steep slope to
reach the top of the promontory. They hadn’t encountered any
Two-Legs on their journey. In fact, they had come across only one
other creature, and then only briefly. It had been crouched on the
short grass which fringed the beach, a Four-Legs like themselves,
but grey-furred and fatter, with a short tail and enormous, pointed
ears that were even bigger than those of Long Ears. It had stared
at them with large, round eyes for a few moments before bounding
off into the trees behind the cove.

Now they were
on the flat ground among the grass and trees that they had seen
from the top of the quarry. Twisted Foot hadn’t been there before,
of course, but the place felt oddly familiar and comforting to him.
When they came out of the trees at the end of the promontory, the
estuary was laid out before them. Down on their right, although
farther away than before, the giant and the little island alongside
it were still in clear view. And directly below them was a
cliff-face that seemed to be alive with the movements and sounds of
the white birds.

‘
Our food supply, Master,’ growled Slayer, who then promptly
disappeared over the edge of the cliff on another hunting
expedition.

Twisted Foot
looked back at this new land that they had escaped to. The mass of
trees, which had seemed dark and threatening at first, now offered
protection instead. Yes, he nodded to himself, they were secure
here, far from the Two-Legs – and they were bound to find water
close by.

‘
Welcome to our new home,’ he said to the others.

Neck-Snapper
was drooling. Long Ears and Small Face were backing away from him.
Cowering and squealing, the mates and youngsters were behind the
two terrified Watchers. And behind them was the cliff edge.

‘
Which one of you traitors shall I kill first?’ asked
Neck-Snapper. He had been looking forward to this encounter. He was
enjoying the moment.

A similar
drama was being played out on the other side of the promontory,
where Jagged Fangs was closing in on Twisted Foot. Twisted Foot was
looking around him in panic. With only the cliff behind him, there
was nowhere for him to retreat to.

‘
You’re coming with us, cripple,’ Jagged Fangs spat out the
words. ‘The Chamberlain wants a word with you.’

Twisted Foot
still couldn’t believe it. Just when he had thought that everything
was perfect, that they were safe at last, the Protectors had
appeared from nowhere. They had separated him from the rest of the
group. They wanted to take him back to the underworld to suffer the
same fate as Narrow Back. But he had decided that he wasn’t going
with them; they were going to have to kill him here instead.

Jagged Fangs
lunged at Twisted Foot, seized the young Watcher’s left ear and
pulled. Screaming in pain, Twisted Foot dug his heels into the
earth, but the Protector was too strong for him, and he began to
slide along the ground. Then he stopped resisting and sprang at
Jagged Fangs instead. Taken off balance, the Protector let go of
the ear and fell backwards with Twisted Foot on top of him. They
were rolling on the grass, both growling deeply and scratching
furiously, each with his fangs bared, trying to gouge the other,
when Slayer re-appeared at the top of the cliff, a young white bird
hanging limply between his jaws.

Instantly
recognising his former Master’s underling, Slayer dropped the bird
and flew into the fray. He clung on to Jagged Fangs’ back and
sought out the Protector’s jugular. Having forgotten Twisted Foot
for the moment, Jagged Fangs began to writhe about in an attempt to
dislodge Slayer, but he writhed so violently that both he and the
little slave-King tumbled over the edge of the cliff and out of
sight.

Neck-Snapper
had been too busy taunting his victims to see what had gone on
behind him. Still drooling, his one eye fixed on Long Ears, the
cripple’s accomplice, he was moving in for his first kill when a
loud, gruff voice came from the direction of the trees.

‘
Why don’t you pick on me instead?’ it challenged.

Neck-Snapper
was slow to recognise the owner of the voice as he emerged into the
open.

‘
You?’ the Protector hissed eventually, although he was still
not sure.

Then another
voice came from behind him.

‘
And why don’t you pick on me, too?’ said Twisted
Foot.

Neck-Snapper
was surrounded by four warriors now; he should have been afraid.
But instead he seemed to relish the situation. He felt invincible.
His back to the cliff edge, he watched as the four of them crept
closer to him.

‘
Come on, misfits!’ he goaded them.

The stranger
was first to move. He charged headlong at Neck-Snapper, searching
for his throat. In the same moment, Twisted Foot attacked his right
flank, and Long Ears his left. Even Small Face joined in by leaping
on the struggling Protector’s back. Despite his bravado, the fight
was over in seconds for Neck-Snapper. As he lay gasping on the
grass, blood spurting from his torn throat, the stranger gave him a
powerful back-kick with both hindlegs, and he went hurtling over
the cliff.